Lewis Emerson
by ShunnedChipmunk
Summary: A broken-hearted Harry Potter flees after the Final Battle, unable to cope with his love for Snape and the fact that Snape somehow survived the attack in the Shrieking Shack. But Snape might be hiding something . . . happy ending I promise :P


Disclaimer: Don't own it, blar blar blar . . .

A/N: So, peoples, it's been a while! Of course you have probably been busy as well, if you've got school or work or anything else time-consuming and whatnot. But yes, I promise I have an excuse! And that excuse would be stupid school. *glares menacingly at school in distance*

Anyway, this is something that I started over the summer and finished just recently, for your viewing pleasure. Beware angst, mood swings, and happy endings. Will write more soon!

x

Harry looked up from his slouched position on the worn couch to gaze at the audibly ticking clock hanging by a nail on the wall. It read eleven fifty-one.

He turned his barely-present attention back to the glass in his hand, and swirled the amber contents, not really seeing anything. The light from the glowing streetlamp outside cut through the curtains hanging over a single window at the far end of the room; it cast shadows over the worn oak table and the lonely chair pushed under it, the end table with its empty vase, and the couch on which was seated the tired young man. One particular shadow cast itself upon him, making the hollow eyes and deathly pale skin more haunting than even in daylight hours. As the seconds ticked slowly by, counting down the minutes to his eighteenth birthday, he thought over how his life had come to this sad and pathetic situation.

He supposed it had all started the moment that the Earth began. In turn, this would lead to the existence of Salazar Slytherin, which would lead to the existence of one Merope Gaunt. Her affections had lead to the birth of Tom Riddle, who used his life to seek revenge upon his Muggle ancestors, destroy the lives of many (Muggle or not), and basically wreak eternal havoc to try to gain permanent and ultimate authority over all things living. The fact that he existed would lead to the announcing of a prophecy by Sybil Trelawney, which would lead to the death of James and Lily Potter, and the placement of Harry in custody of his relatives. Harry would then go on to Hogwarts, thwart Voldemort in his quest for the Philosopher's Stone, kill a basilisk and stab a Horcrux, release Voldemort's servant and save both Buckbeak and his Godfather from unjust penalties, "battle" a dragon, bring up his best friend and a French girl from the bottom of the Black Lake, survive a monster-inhabited maze, watch Cedric Diggory be murdered, witness the rebirth of Lord Voldemort, survive a battle with him and return Cedric's body, aid in unmasking a death eater disguised as otherwise, remain sane while being called the opposite at every turn for a year, struggle against a Ministry worker by creating Dumbledore's Army, lead himself and four other teenagers into a battle at the Ministry between Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix resulting in the death of his Godfather, struggle through simultaneously trying to identify the Half-Blood Prince and figuring out what Snape and Malfoy were up to, aid in the retrieving of a fake Horcrux, witness the death of Albus Dumbledore, endure the deaths of both Hedwig and Mad Eye Moody, penetrate the Ministry with Ron and Hermione and gain a real Horcrux, survive an encounter with Nagini and Voldemort at Godric's Hollow, somehow make it alive out of a Death Eater-infested Malfoy Manor while rescuing three people and a goblin, break into Gringott's to gain another Horcrux, witness his two best friends finally admit their attraction to each other in the form of snogging, gain yet another Horcrux during an incident with Fiendfyre, see Fred Weasley be killed, see the "supposed death" of Severus Snape, finally learn the truth about his future and destiny, and yada yada Voldemort's dead.

It was not any of these things that led to his life as it was now; rather it was the man that had shown up right after the Final Battle, dripping a bit at the neck, but far from dead.

Harry's harbored and repressed, but infinitely-existent, love of Severus Snape had been dealt a serious blow by the realization that the man had been, and still was, in love with his mother. In time it might've faded with the knowledge that there was nothing to be done for it now, but the man just had to stubbornly cling to life like the snarky git he was. With his Alive status had come a fact that slammed Harry in the chest like a solid brick wall at top-speed: The man was still alive, and yet there was _still_ nothing to be done for it. What self-respecting, thirty-eight-year-old Death Eater turned War Hero would have even the remotest interest in an emotionally-disturbed almost-eighteen-year-old that was the son of both his schoolyard nemesis and the woman that was the object of his unrequited love?

Harry would laugh at that, but he never laughed nowadays.

And so, having fulfilled everyone's expectations of him with "Vanquishing the Most Dangerous Wizard in Over a Century", Harry had slung his invisibility cloak over himself while Luna had pointed out some non-existent creature in the opposite direction, paid a final visit to the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, and left the grounds of Hogwarts unnoticed.

He imagined that it had caused quite a lot of shock when people had realized that their "Savior" had left after completing his duties. Nonetheless, Harry was quite content to inhabit this small house on this small street in this small Muggle German city under a Glamour covering his scar and the alias of Lewis Emerson, cut off from the Wizarding World and all his friends. It had taken him up to the moment of telling the Real Estate Agent to come up with the name; it had rolled from his brain down to his mouth, and off his tongue in an instant. He had always rather liked the name Lewis, from the points in his early childhood that he had taken to dreaming of being someone else. The surname Emerson had just popped into his head, being the real surname of one of Dudley's gang members. Believe it or not, it had had nothing to do with his mother's initials, although he had realized the unintended significance with a small, sad smile a week later.

In the two months since his disappearance, Harry had barely spoken at all. The days passed in trips to the small book store around the corner, silent readings of his purchases there, and many hours of anguished thoughts. He barely ate anymore, whether due to the past year of scavenging for food, his usual reversions to old eating habits during the summer, or the extreme depression he had sunken into. Whatever the cause, he felt himself grow skinnier by the day, his body becoming more angular and his clothes gradually becoming looser. When he woke up screaming and in a cold sweat from a nightmare of some haunting memory from his past (which was nearing every night), he scolded himself for wishing for the comfort of pale, thin arms and infinitely-black eyes. It does not do to dwell on dreams, he told himself.

With all the hours of silence and self-berating thought, Harry did not realize how low his self-esteem had plummeted until a very interested-looking girl had smiled at him one day in the bakery and his brain's immediate reaction had been to start listing all the reasons she would never have done that if she really knew him. But then he just remembered that his self esteem had always been the same, except now he could finally admit to himself his true opinion of the person he was. He had even reverted to the mentality he had had as a child, minus the child part.

Harry looked back up at the clock, altering the shadow's effect on him so that the left side of his face was highlighted. It read eleven fifty-nine.

Despite only being eleven fifty-nine, the hand slowly counting down the seconds travelled around the eight and progressed towards the nine, telling Harry that in less than twenty seconds he would legally be eighteen.

He had dreamed of this birthday several times in the past few days; even now he wasn't sure if it was real or if he would wake up in his small bed feeling emptier than ever. The dreams brought along several scenarios of how his birthday could, but never would, happen. One of the dreams consisted of Ron barging in an hour before his birthday with two broomsticks and dragging him outside of his small house to a Quidditch field that just appeared there, to fly around and try to throw lockets through the goalposts. In another dream, it was Hermione that visited him, and she had knit him a clock to carry around so he would always know when to send her a letter. It was always someone coming to find him on his birthday.

In the dream where it was Ginny who came to him, she had tried to give him a sweater from her mother but Harry had to keep trying to explain to her that he only wanted Snape's sweaters. Luna had wanted to interview him for an article in _The Quibbler_ about what it's like to read a book, but when he tried to tell her that Library books weren't allowed out of the Castle, she wouldn't listen to him. McGonagall had told him strictly and straightforward that he was to use the Cruciatus curse on Snape the next time he saw him, because it was unethical for Snape to learn how to fly from Voldemort. Every night when he went to sleep, he silently wished that in the next dream Snape would visit him. Snape did visit him, but never in the birthday dreams. Always those haunting eyes that looked so like tunnels, and the hand holding the front of his robes going limp . . .

Tick.

_I wonder if eighteen's any better than seventeen._

Tick.

_I wonder if I'll ever see any of them again._

Tick.

_I wonder if I'll ever see _him_ again._

Tick.

_What's that noise outside?_

Tick.

_I wonder if I'm dreaming._

Tick.

_Are those footsteps?_

Tick.

_Yes, I must be dreaming._

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

_Knock, knock, knock._

At the exact moment that the second hand joined the other two hands on the twelve, three light raps could be heard at the front door. Harry, still staring into his glass, gave a sad little smile. Yes, he must be dreaming, even if it didn't feel like a dream. This could only happen in a dream.

He stood slowly, and placed his half-empty glass on the end table next to the vase. Harry walked to the door, hoping that maybe this time, it would be Severus.

Instead of using his wand, he undid each of the five locks by hand, and when he turned the knob and opened the door, he was not disappointed.

Severus looked just as he always did; black robes and cloak, shoulder length black hair being slightly ruffled by a light wind, pale face, but something different about the eyes made Harry question if he was dreaming. He had never before seen concern in those eyes; not directed at him, anyways.

But he must be dreaming.

The man took in the appearance of Harry with disbelief, like he was questioning his sight. Harry was confused; if he had knocked on his door, why would he be surprised to see him?

For the first time since the night in the Shrieking Shack that haunted his dreams so often, Harry heard the voice he had so longed to hear again.

"It's you."

He had missed that voice so much; but the words confused him. Severus sounded relieved.

"Me," Harry replied, almost a question and so quiet it could've been a whisper.

Harry stepped back to allow Severus to come in, which he did. Harry gestured to the couch, and then sat down on it beside Severus.

It was quiet for a minute. Then Severus spoke.

"Why?"

This seemed way too real for Harry. He pinched himself, and sure enough, this was real. His mind screamed that it wasn't possible, but his heart wanted it to be so badly . . .

"You're real—you're really—"

"Did you just pinch yourself? Of course I'm real, what else—"

But Severus paused, and comprehension dawned on his face. He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small bottle, and handed it to Harry.

"Drink."

Harry did just that, subconsciously trusting that whatever he had been given was not poison, and was about to ask what it was when he all of a sudden felt infinitely tired; not the kind of tired where you want to lay down and never wake up again, like he'd felt for the past two months. It was the kind of fuzzy tired, where you feel pleasantly drowsy and can't wait to get to sleep. Which is exactly what he did.

Severus waited for the young man beside him to fall asleep, before lifting him up off the couch and carrying him into the only adjoining room, the bedroom.

He placed him on the small bed, then pulled out his wand and transfigured it into a more comfortable bed with a thick blanket, and pulled the blanket up to Harry's chin. Harry's glasses were folded and placed gently on a side table. He then went to the main room and relocked and warded the front door magically. Severus sighed, and walked back into the bedroom, conjuring a comfortable chair close beside the bed to sit in.

Severus was infinitely thankful that he had brought along a Dreamless Sleep Potion, because it was obvious that the young man had not been sleeping well. It was also brutally obvious that he had not been eating well either, and had probably thought Severus to be an illusion.

He watched Harry sleep. He had never before been able to freely admire the tousled black hair, the thick jet-black lashes resting on pale cheeks, the parted pink mouth. Even in a state of obvious malnutrition, he was handsome.

How would he ever tell him that he had been hopelessly in love with him since Harry's sixth year? How would he tell him that he'd been so determined to not let him know about it that even on the brink of death, he'd mentally altered the memories that the previously-seventeen-year-old had seen? How would he tell him that the reason his Patronus was a doe was not because he was in love with Lily, but because he had loved her as his only true friend? And how, how would he tell him that he had wanted to die looking into Harry's beautiful emerald eyes for what he had thought would be the last time?

He thought back to when everyone had finally realised that Harry was gone. No one could understand; they all kept saying things like "But he should be happy now!" and "Why would he leave when Voldemort's finally dead?"

But even if Severus had never been in that position, he knew what Harry must have been feeling. The pain of feeling like all the deaths are your fault, if only you'd stopped it sooner. Everyone relying on you to save them for such a long time; no one really seeing you for you, but as the one person that could kill Voldemort.

The only two people besides Severus that truly understood seemed to be Harry's two closest friends, Granger and Weasley. The two of them stood off to the sidelines, every once in a while sending strange glances at Snape. It was this that made Severus think that maybe those were not the only reasons Harry Potter ran away.

They seemed to notice Snape noticing, because the both of them had been trying to avoid him. He had finally managed to corner them and drag the two reluctant teenagers into an empty classroom one day, and demanded (for Harry's own good, of course) to know what they apparently weren't telling anybody else.

"No offense, sir, but it really is not your business—"

"Actually, Hermione, technically I think it _is_ his business," Weasley had said.

Granger had scowled at him, then turned back to Snape. "Sir, I know this might seem very personal, but to tell you we need to know how you honestly think of Harry."

Snape had glared at them and was about to make some scathing remark when Granger looked pointedly at him and said, "_Honestly,_ sir. It is important."

Snape had sighed and looked at both of them, then at the ground.

"I am in love with him."

There had been silence, and he had looked up expecting shocked, disgusted faces only to see Granger and Weasley grinning like mad.

"What?"

Weasley answered. "He's—_he's_ in love with _you_."

The look of uncharacteristic incredulity on Snape's face had just made the teenagers grin even more. Granger had said, "He never really told us, or anyone for that matter, but we saw the way he looked at you. And I might add that you, Professor, are a very good actor."

And so he had reluctantly joined Granger and Weasley in doing anything they could to locate Harry. He had explained to them about the altered memories, and it was something they had been confused about, because apparently everyone now thought that Snape was in love with Lily Potter. They'd explained the words exchanged between Harry and Voldemort during the Final Battle, because Snape himself had not been present, but making his way up to the Castle after being healed by Fawkes. After two months of relentless searching and researching many houses (and Obliviating even more Muggles along the way), they had discovered a magical signature in a small German Muggle city, in a house which was owned by a man named Lewis Emerson. They considered the initials a good sign, and Granger and Weasley had pressured Severus to make the trip alone. He had grumbled all the way, but was secretly glad about it.

Now that he was here, it felt so amazing to have finally found Harry. There had been times during the two months where he had wondered if they would ever find him. The only obstacles now were to tell Harry that he was madly in love with him, and to try to convince him to come back. Great.

ooo

When Harry woke up, he did not open his eyes. Something was off, and it was not just the fact that he actually felt well-rested or that he was lying in a very comfortable bed with a very comfortable blanket.

He could smell coffee.

Gradually, another scent came to his nose, but it was so subtle and unbelievable that it took a moment for him to both recognise it and realise that yes, that was it. It was the soft smell of sandalwood; the smell of Snape.

The last night came rushing back and his eyes snapped open. It had to have been a dream, but why would his nose be eagerly breathing in Snape's scent if it was? Why would he be laying here on this comfortable bed that looked nothing like his old one, under a thick blanket that had definitely not been there before?

His eyelids, which had assumed a normal position in his long moment of thought, suddenly went wide again.

_How could he face Snape?_

Feeling more alive than he had since the Final Battle, Harry threw the blanket off him and rushed to the shabby dresser against the opposite wall after shoving on his glasses. He hastily pulled open the top drawer and rifled through the small amount of clothing there, finally settling on a pair of jeans and the nicest white T-shirt he had. After changing, he stumbled into the tiny bathroom and gazed at his reflection.

He looked pathetic.

His hands tried desperately to flatten the stubborn hair on his head, all the while mentally noting just how skinny he was now; as bad as he usually was when he returned to Hogwarts after a summer in the "care" of the Dursleys. The pale cheeks were somewhat sunken, although the sudden excitement and much-needed sleep had lessened the dark circles around his eyes.

A face appeared in the doorway, and Severus saw a blush grace Harry's surprised features. He raised an eyebrow.

"Indulging in vanity already?"

The words surprised Harry even further, and Severus was quick to be met with a scowl. All that mattered was the spark of life in the green eyes; he never wanted to see them looking so dead ever again.

"Breakfast is waiting in the kitchen," Severus continued. Before returning to said main room, he added with a stern look, "It is not optional."

After Snape disappeared back around the door, Harry was both slightly irritated and trying to resist the insane urge to smile.

Harry ate awkwardly, not used to consuming so much and also not exactly comfortable under the watchful eye of Snape. When it became difficult to hold back the look of "if-I-don't-quit-now-something-bad-will-happen," he was thankfully stopped.

"That is enough," Snape said, and the small amused upturn of his mouth from Harry sagging in relief went unnoticed. All of a sudden Harry sat back up very straight with a sick expression on his face. Snape raised a questioning eyebrow.

"If I move," Harry said, wincing and trying not to move like he'd said, "You might have the displeasure of seeing those waffles again."

The abnormal constriction in his chest at Snape's presence wasn't exactly helping either.

It was only a couple days later, when Harry could successfully eat mediocre amounts at meals without feeling like he might hurl, that they actually exchanged words that went beyond the necessary.

"May I?" Snape's voice sounded. Harry looked up from his seat at the table to see a long-fingered hand gesturing at his stack of books. Even though the two had been unusually even-tempered with each other over the past two days (while Snape slept on the couch and Harry's mind wrestled with the idea of offering to switch . . . or share), the calm in the man's voice was still a foreign thing.

He nodded and watched as Snape selected a book and seated himself on the couch. His legs were crossed regally at the ankles, over which was the pair of black pants and robes which had been repeatedly Scourgified in the absence of a change of clothes. Harry had wondered at offering Snape some of his own clothes, but he doubted if he'd have anything to fit—

"Is there a reason you are watching me?" Snape asked without lifting his eyes from the book in his lap. He looked up a second later to see Harry blushing and staring fixedly at his own book. He had noticed it was not often that Harry would look him in the eye; and he had a feeling it was something to do with their encounter two months ago.

Already Harry's face was looking less sunken, all traces of dark circles gone. The only difference in his body was that it was not quite so angular any—

"You are doing the same, sir," Harry said softly, also not lifting his eyes. There was an almost unnoticeable smile quirking the corners of his mouth.

Another two days and Harry had made up his mind.

As Snape headed tiredly for the couch after his nightly shower, hair only somewhat damp after a drying charm, Harry said timidly, "You can have the bed, if you want."

Black eyes met his with mild surprise.

"With you?"

Harry flushed and searched for something to say. "Well, I could take the—I mean it's your choice if you—er, I mean—"

A smirk was slowly making its way onto Snape's features while Harry struggled. "Do quit your rambling," he intruded, as Harry's will to suddenly combust reached maximum level. "It is a double bed."

And so it was that they climbed into the large bed that evening, Harry doing so awkwardly. He tried to keep his limbs to himself and could only hope that a nightmare did not occur tonight. The light was extinguished.

"Snore, and I shall rethink our sleeping arrangements."

Harry smiled to himself in the dark. "Goodnight, sir."

ooo

It was four days of this and an unbearable lack of happenings between them later when Harry made up his mind about something else that he needed to ask.

"Why are you doing this?"

Severus looked up from his seat at the small table where he was reading by candlelight, to look over at the couch. Harry was definitely less skinny now. It was somewhat visible through the young man's clothing (that Severus sometimes found himself wishing were off) that he had regained almost all of his weight. There was no sunken-ness to the handsome features at all anymore in what light the candle on the table provided, and life sparked more and more often in his eyes.

Harry quickly looked away before Severus could answer. "You don't have to keep protecting me, if that's it," he added quietly.

Realization of what Harry must think of his stay here hit Severus. His gut clenched for the first time in a long while as he prepared to spill his soul.

"That is not it."

Harry looked up in surprise, dropping his gaze just as fast.

Severus rose off the chair and took the steps over to the couch. He seated himself next to the young man who still refused to make eye contact with him.

"Look at me," he said softly.

Harry's eyes widened at the familiar words and his face turned up to look at Severus. He found his stomach turning over and over at the expression in the older man's eyes.

He could see Snape swallowing, the dim light highlighting the side of his face attractively, before the next words exited his mouth.

"Your mother was the only true friend, besides Albus Dumbledore, that I have ever had," he spoke. Harry wondered at this strange, but already known to him, detail. Also, it was the first time anything concerning Lily had entered the fray of their conversations in, well . . . ever. It also seemed extremely personal.

Snape continued, "Although she was no doubt the most beautiful and caring woman I have ever and will ever know, I simply do not . . . if you have heard the phrase," he paused, looking ever-so-slightly nervous, "'_swing_ that way.'"

The teeth that had been lightly tapping on the inside of Harry's lower lip lost all contact with it as his jaw dropped the smallest amount that could be considered surprise. He remembered himself and closed his mouth. "What's this—what's this to do with me? Or you staying here?" he said somewhere between a hush and a whisper, not even realising he was doing so in his embarrassment to talk after such an admission.

Something similar to guilt plagued Snape's face as he struggled to answer. "Since you left . . . I couldn't rest. I spoke with Granger and Weasley—"

This ignited something Severus had far from expected.

Anger flashed bright and alive across Harry's face, the brain behind the handsomely contorted features roiling with fill-ins and rash might-haves, jumping to conclusions he could, and deep down _did_, know better than to reach. The graying sofa complained as he jumped up to stand over the sitting, surprised figure.

"So they spilled, did they? The tragic story of some pathetic love-sick teenager who couldn't keep his stupid emotions in control long enough even to stay with them? And you came to console me for as little as you could deem barely acceptable to free the guilt you felt, which by the way, I don't know how you of all people could feel guilt, especially now! You came to let me down gently, despite that I know you're feeding me shitty excuses and deep down you would rather just slam it in my face! Go ahead! Say it!"

He was almost screaming by the time he ended. His twisted face was impossible to compare to the carefully schooled features Severus put forward from his seated position. "You are jumping to conclu—"

"Say it!" Harry interrupted, even angrier than before.

Snape's nostrils flared, but the notorious temper stayed locked inside for another time, another place. For now he calmed himself. "What, Potter, do you want me to say?" his voice was approaching dangerously calm.

"You got me! You don't love me and wouldn't ever want to!" came the snide and angry reply, still bearing down upon him.

Severus rose slowly, allowing his height to surpass that of the man now standing almost uncomfortably close to him. He carefully pushed Harry's boundaries, dark eyes staring back into those furious green ones, the ones that only showed fear at this instant if you stopped and checked for it. That was exactly what Severus was doing.

He bent his head around Harry's, eliminating eye contact and stopping right beside his ear. "You got me," he whispered. "I love you."

There was the smallest of breath intakes from Harry and a silence that seemed to stretch on and on. Then, right as it approached too long, hands shoved Snape roughly back onto the couch, snapping him away from Harry. An unidentifiable emotion flared across his face as he stared down at him.

"_What?_"

Severus stared around apprehensively, away from Harry, in an uncommon state of nervousness. He looked back up at the face that was in some confused state between shock, disbelief, and the anger which had seemingly brought a dead man to life.

"I'm sorry."

His voice was so sincere that it pressed upon Harry's chest.

"Sorry for what?" Harry asked, drained, face and hands falling to reveal just how confused he really was. "Coming here? Lying about caring about me? I don't need that, I don't want that, I want—"

Harry stopped and carefully closed his mouth.

Severus pulled Harry down beside him on the couch from his tired, slumped stance. He held onto one of the smaller hands between both of his own and made pulse-provoking eye contact.

"I'm sorry for altering the memories I gave you two months ago. I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner to tell you. I'm sorry I caused you so much . . . pain. I'm sorry I can't say sorry enough to make up for even a fraction of it."

Harry's wide eyes closed and his head thumped back against the pillowed couch, but he made no move to retrieve his hand. His voice was slightly hysterical as he asked, "You altered the memories?"

"I was never in love with Lily. She was my best friend, I wanted to protect her. I've . . . never told anyone this, except Albus. But you need to know."

Harry's eyes remained closed. "Oh, okay," he said with a small note of insanity.

There was a pause. "Would you like to know what I'm _not_ sorry for?" Severus asked, running his thumb over the smooth skin on the back of Harry's hand and unknowingly sending tingles all the way up said limb.

His only response was a gulp.

Severus silently leaned closer to speak, his deep voice affecting every nerve in Harry's body.

"I'm not sorry for lying about caring about you."

He paused. "Because . . . . I haven't lied today, Harry; not once."

Harry's lips parted a fraction and Severus could see the quick, shallow, almost silent breaths that escaped them. "Oh," he whispered.

Severus bent his head close to the exposed pale neck, slowly, deliberately, and pressed his lips to the skin there. He could feel their racing heartbeats, not quite in sync; he knew Harry's eyes were still closed, as if when they opened this would be some insane dream. The adrenaline was pulsing wildly through his system.

Harry gasped softly at the feel of a hot, wet tongue caressing his neck. It felt so good that after a moment he adjusted to allow Severus better access, moaning when Severus took advantage of the movement to become more fervent.

Hands rested on either side of Severus' face, pulling him up until he was looking right into a set of beautiful, wide, emerald eyes. Behind the famous glasses, of course.

The corner of Harry's mouth turned up, barely noticeable in the low lighting. He let out a soft breath of a laugh. Staring right back at Severus, he said, "You know, I could've sworn you were sane."

Severus smiled, eyes lidded, and laughed softly as well before Harry pressed his own lips to the thin, pale ones that he'd been dreaming of for too long.

"Perhaps," Harry thought, walking out of the small house three days later without looking back, a bag in one hand and Severus' long-fingered hand in the other, "Life isn't as dreary as I thought it was."

Severus stopped them several yards away, holding out his wand and preparing to Apparate. "Ready?"

Harry took a deep breath and gave a nod.

That snarky, wonderful, delicious, and sometimes evil mouth swooped down upon his own as the familiar compressing sensation of Apparition took them away, and Harry had another thought.

"Scratch that. Life is Fan-Bloody-Tastic."

x

The End. :)

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